unreasonable, unbelievable and impossible had come about. …
And then here was Beatrice Corliss herself, not an elemental Beatrice, but a Beatrice of cities and railroads and theatres and balls, laying her hand on Embry's arm, saying quickly:
"Mr. Embry, for my sake! Please! What this man says should not even interest us, let alone stir our anger. Shall we go now?"
Embry paused as though uncertain. Steele's short laugh was as ugly a sound as Beatrice had ever heard.
"If he takes what I have given him and lies down under it," he said bluntly, "then he's not only a liar, but a damned skulking coward!"
In her heart she knew that that was so. And yet, secure now in her place in the twentieth century and with her back stubbornly turned upon that earlier time which, at crises, goes shouting down the blood of man, she said gently:
"Because I ask it, Mr. Embry? I know it is hard, but … Will you come … for me?"
There had crept into her voice a tone which startled both men who heard it and yet of which Beatrice was all unconscious; as instinctively as men's fists clench so, with equal instinct, can the woman's voice, her very attitude, become at need her own glorious weapon, and the woman never so much as know it.
"I will come with you," cried Embry quickly. "For your sake."
She laughed at Steele then, the woman the victor, her cheeks grown red, her eyes like his with the fire in
